For the Winged and Weary
by SiriuslyScarredforLife
Summary: In a world of winged souls, John is the only one who can see them. It's a blessing. It's a curse. Either way, he's a Freak. When he sees Sherlock's wings, sees the limpness of them and yet the way they still stubbornly stand upright... He's not stupid, he knows a dead man walking. But why do they seem to gain a spark of life when they are together? He decides that he doesn't care.


Disclaimer: I do not own any Sherlock BBC characters and no profit is made off of this story.

_Experiment 117 (ii)_

_Status: Commence continuation, 15 April_

_Hypothesis: Father will storm out in a huff. If effectively managed, two punches will be thrown before exit- bicep, chest. Course of action: Duck._

"Hello father," he keeps his tone of voice mechanical and monotonous the way he knows Hamish Watson hates. Brow relaxed, face wiped as clean as a slate, eyes dead. Hamish continues perusing the newsprint leisurely, only sparing a short-lived glance at his strange son. Not even a wrinkling of the corners of his eyes betray any disturbance.

_Tells: None so far. Supposation: Reaction to action exhausted. Course of action: Employ different course of action_.

_Change noted. _His demeanor changes with an eye blink. He tilts his head to the side, cocked like a clueless puppy- even though he's not as innocent- and manipulates the vocal cords in his throat effortlessly by releasing the tension holding his grave timbre steady; he injects a shot of innocence into his tone; he deliberately widens his eyes until they look like great reflective pools of pale green and grey blue.

He detects how his father has relaxed with every tweak to his persona until he is lulled into a (false) sense of security. He sees the exact moment when his defenses melt away into reluctant ease. Then, he opens his mouth, which is still pulled up into a childish grin that makes his lips softer at the edges, and delivers the cutting line with the certainty of a vindictive eagle striking at its hapless prey.

"Your wings look nice today."

_Prospect One: Father will be stunned speechless (duration of effect: 23 seconds) Will regain function of tongue, fists will then clench, eyes will be narrowed, teeth will be bared. He will control himself and storm out (force at which door will be slammed: 1kph- rattles hinges)_

_Prospect Two: He will not control himself. Screaming, punching, fisting of (my) hair will be imminent._

When his father recoils as though struck, then trembles like the engine of a bulldozer starting up, John knows it is _Prospect Two _that will occur due to the current circumstances and that _ETA of beating: T-8 seconds_.

The only regret that clangs noisily in his hollow chest a second later is that he had miscalculated the timing. _Correction to ETA: T -5 seconds_, and he's only able to complete the early stages of the _Course of action (Duck and run) _when he is slammed ruthlessly into the unforgiving wall, his brain clattering in alarm as it is thrown about carelessly on impact and his eyes roll back into his head momentarily, seeking solace in the numb darkness. Then, he is wrenched back and the first thought that stumbles drunkenly into his mind is: _velocity at which his father had thrown him into the wall = heavy concussion. _

"Shut up, freak!" he hears Hamish bellowing; it is wallpaper (secondary importance) to the beautiful knowledge that he catalogues in his hard drive with every punch, kick, (_tear)_. When _painpain capacity_, he reluctantly allows his body to shut down until he is only a rag doll being played with by a temperamental toddler.

_/reset/_

_/rewind T-1 hour 30 minutes; pause; play/_

_/download/_

_/stored/_

_/Presentation of findings from Experiment 117(ii), 15 April- Conclusion to Experimentation on A.N.G.E.R, commenced on 1 January/_

_/Human tells/_

_/clenched fists,set jaw, taut jaw muscles, locked teeth, deeper breathing, eye twitch (depending on variables), flared nostrils, stiff back, arms across chest, glares, quivering adam's apple, tick in temple, feet placed far apart, aggressive aura (causes being: murderous thoughts), increased use of curses, etc./_

_/Pennon tells- Catalogue: Hamish wings red/_

_/bristling feathers, stiffened shafts, affixed vanes, undeviating wings positions- stiff, straight-backed, sharpened wing tips, ferocity in wing movements (when applicable), adoption of imposing stance, raised hackles, stillness of wings/_

_/Absolute conclusion: Human tells are prevalent in pennons- reflection of actions in wings, corresponding wing reactions to human reaction. Actions of hostility, saved. Firewall against violence=85% where 15% is based on happenstance/_

_/saved/_

_/shut down/_

He dreams of vultures with glistening bloody wings that swoop down to rip at the ligaments of his prone flesh and claw at his eyeballs. He wakes up on a bed (his), in the bedroom at the Watson's house but when he reaches for the glass on the bedside table, bandages impede his movements.

His own snowy white wings (16 feet long so far and brushing the sides of the walls of his room) droop in a moment of short-lived self-pity. Then he unfurls them forcefully and ensures they stand, proud and _strong _as he twists on the bed to wrest himself vertical. His feet touch the cold ceramic floor and he limps into the bathroom to wash up, head still raised high but blue eyes desolate, like a cold, forsaken prince.


End file.
